Fight on the Long Road
by NyleveLlama
Summary: Historic (vaguely). During the Great Depression Matthew seeks out his brother in concern, only to discover Alfred's peculiar way of coping with the economic crisis. No romance. Rated T for violence and language.


**Fight on the Long Road**

 _Warning: violence, swear words, alcohol._

* * *

Warmth blossomed in his mouth, the sticky liquid bursting like a caramel filled candy with a bitter flavor. It was metallic and strange, although not unfamiliar. He let it swell in his mouth, ran his tongue over his aching, broken teeth as he savored the taste of blood. Dimly he could hear the roar of a crowd, muffled and fused together like a wrathful ocean breaking the shores. If the intense ringing hadn't been irritating his ears it might have been a soothing sound. If he could see who was banging those stupid bells in his head he'd flatten their face with his fists all too gladly. Without warning the screams crashed deafeningly into his senses and he lurched, spitting up the blood in his mouth.

Barely processing his own actions, he rolled onto his stomach, his arms planked underneath him as they strained to push his body upright. Red-streaked eyes blinked furiously as blurred silhouettes grew in his dimmed sight. It was then he heard a thin voice through the torrent of shouts, counting down. The beaten man hurriedly pushed his feet underneath him and stood unsteadily, having to swallow bile that burned like acid which rose from his stomach to his throat. His left eye was swollen so horribly he could only see a blurred slit through the darkened corners. Blood and sweat dripped into his other eye.

The pain was both furious and tame, he knew it was there but everything was so muted he could barely feel it. As his sight cleared moderately, all his memory and determination returned to him. He would win this fight. Breathing painfully, his ribs rattling resoundingly in his gut, probably broken, he gave a sharp nod to the ref who signaled the fight to continue.

His opponent wasted no time on taunts and charged full force at him. He was too slow to avoid it and took the full brunt of the tackle. Instantly, gloved fists pounded into his bare stomach repeatedly. The fighter couldn't even groan in pain, instead he pushed his energy into wrapping an arm around the beefy man's neck and returning the unforgiving punches. Just as he was shoved against the flexing ropes he heard a crack with satisfaction. The man in his grip roared and he obligingly releasing him.

That was a mistake. Furious with the blow, the man swung a heavy punch that the fighter was too slow to dodge in time. He wasn't aware he had fallen until he hit the ground. Again, there was a second of peace before a bloodied tooth completely dislodged itself from his gums. He choked and spat it out before once again rising to his feet. Nothing could stop him, not ever. It was just a game but he took it as seriously as if he were fighting for his life. In this moment he thrived, he was more alive than he had felt in a long time.

The fight continued.

This time, however, the fighter was liberated of all physical burden. His ribs were broken; so what. His teeth were falling out and blood dribbled down his chin; just swell. Bruises covered his muscular body, purple and vibrant as fruit, he had landed on his ankle awkwardly sometime ago. None of that mattered. He inhaled blood and exhaled flakes of vomit, but he was standing. There was no power in the world that could keep him down for long and he reveled in that knowledge. Adrenaline and will-power pumped through his veins. He would win the fight.

Ironically, it took only two solid hits before his opponent hit the floor, completely knocked out of consciousness. A bell rang in the dark space around the ring and the crowd cheered, the strain of their throats clearly heard in the music of excitement.

The fighter laughed a little, or what appeared to be a pant of heavy air, before raising his fist toward the ceiling in victory. It was never a surprised to him when he won but he sure as hell loved the feeling.

The young man left the ring abruptly, pushing through the dense wall of people easily. He didn't even bother trying to relocate his shirt, he simply walked as far away as he could. Somehow he pushed through a door and emerged in a pungent, dirty alley. The fumes didn't bother him, he adapted to them quickly. But it was enough to trigger his already uneasy stomach and instantly he vomited in a pile of decomposing trash. The heaving disrupted his burning sides and he panted in pain, blond hair greased in sweat plastered to his forehead.

Darkness was beginning to creep into his blurred vision and he struggled to take deep breaths to regain control over his body.

"You look like shit."

The fighter blinked dumbly as he straightened himself to blearily stare at the person who had addressed him. It took a ridiculously long time to identify the man before him, watching him with that composed expression. The fighter finally wheezed out a weak laugh and wiped the blood off his split lips.

"Gee, Mattie, didn't expect you here with the whole crisis going on."

Rather than respond immediately, the Canadian silently held out a flask toward his beaten brother. Alfred accepted it and tossed his head back as he chugged the contents. Although the city was alive with obnoxious noise, the alley was heavy with silence.

"I came to check on you, I know the economic depression affected you seriously," Matthew finally spoke after Alfred was visibly steadier.

The American laughed breathlessly again, wincing a second later. "I'm doing fine, as you can see."

"Yes, so I see," Matthew said dryly, eyeing the blood and bruises all over his torso.

Alfred smiled, his lips curling softly in nostalgia. "You sound a lot like Arthur sometimes."

His twin gave him a skeptical look. "Are you sure you're alright? Did that beast of a man actually knock your brains out?"

"Why would you say that?" Alfred asked in a mockingly indignant tone before tapping at his own temple. "This ol' noggin is thick as brick."

"You can say that again."

The young fighter took another swig of the fiery alcohol his brother had given him and stumbled forward. "C'mon, I'll take ya to my place."

As Alfred had abandoned his shirt at the boxing ring, Matthew gave his twin the thick coat he had been wearing to deflect the chilly air. Alfred didn't seemed bothered by the cold for once, his body radiated immense heat from the physical exertion of the fight. It was no mystery as to which brother harbored a deep dislike for winter.

Luckily for them, the walk was not far and soon the American led his brother into a dingy apartment. Alfred bodily threw himself onto the couch and propped his feet on one of the arms, his head on the other, drinking a generous amount of alcohol. "How's the outside world?"

Matthew perched on a chair nearby, back straight in perfect posture. "Poor."

Alfred snorted. "Everything has gone to hell since WWI."

"Didn't think you cared."

A purple fingernail traced over the rim of the flask thoughtfully. "I care. I just don't want to deal with everyone's shit."

"You seem to be having plenty of fun running off without a word of warning and beating young boys in fistfights," Matthew retorted shortly.

The pain that had been lost in the adrenaline of the fight was now gradually flooding his senses, Alfred suddenly felt sick and tired. He rolled his head back against the cushioned arm and sighed heavily. This was what he had truly been running from.

"You're joining the group of people scolding me about how I neglect my responsibilities?"

"That's not my place and you know it. But you could be doing something more useful, yes."

Alfred growled but Matthew continued before he could make a response.

"And you certainly don't have to hide from me. I don't appreciate you avoiding me, Alfred. I don't care what condition you're in, you're my brother and I've been worried about you."

At this, Alfred fell silent. He stared blankly at the low ceiling, the anger fading as quickly as it had come. Matthew watched in silence. His twin was an open book, every thought was clearly expressed on his face and he certainly seemed to have no trouble announcing each naked thought. But there were a few moments where Alfred was very suddenly reserved, it became difficult to predict what he would do next. It was frightening to see, especially as this trait had not developed until after the young nation's Civil War.

Finally the young man stirred by turning his head, directing those piercing blue eyes toward his brother. Although one was swollen almost shut, the look still carried the strength that so characterized the American.

"I'm going to be just fine, Mattie," Alfred said quietly. "It's gonna take a lot of work and probably a long time to get over this depression. But I'm still fighting every step of the way."

Matthew didn't speak, understanding flooding him. America, his brother, had always held himself tall and proud with such abnormal strength that it was almost impossible to view him in any other light. And yet, since 1929, the personification of the United States had been somewhat crippled by the collapse of the economy. Alfred had been physically sick for years, feeling the repercussions of the Great Depression. And yet he had never shown it. Matthew had originally felt hurt by this, although he was respectful of his brother's privacy, he felt he was missing something very essential because of the metaphorical wall placed between them. Now he could see why Alfred had done what he did, even if he still didn't wholeheartedly approve of it. Alfred had been in complete isolation for so long he had learned to carry the burdens of his nation alone, the spirited boy had grown into a strong man. A man who smiled through hell and fought any obstacle before him with every ounce of determination. Alfred was coping through his physical sickness by literally fighting.

The Canadian was pulled from his thoughts as Alfred stood stiffly, shrugging off the dark coat. He flashed a grin at Matthew, teeth stained maroon red by blood which contrasted the gaping hole where one pearly white was missing.

"I'll clean up and then we can get something to eat. I'm starving!"

"Please no greasy street food, you'll just puke it up," although it was meant as a warning, Matthew found himself smiling.

Alfred waved, his knuckles skinned and raw. "Hey, I may not have food as fancy as anything you're used to but you can't deny American food is sure good."

"Take a bath, you stink."

Childishly, Alfred stuck out his tongue before shuffling into the bathroom.

Matthew stood and retrieved his coat, running his fingers along the damp spots of blood that had leaked onto it. There were times where he just didn't understand Alfred and yet he still loved his brother deeply. Things had been difficult for them in the past but both were determined to make the future brighter together. And there was no doubt in Matthew's mind that his brother would truly be alright, he had witnessed for himself just how hard it was to knock that thick-head of an American down.

Everything would be alright.

* * *

 _ **Dedicated to those who those who are experiencing, or have experienced, depression.**_

 **This was written spontaneously. I had serious writer's block for a while now, mostly due to my depression. It's a long, hard road to recovery and I guess this story is a weird reflection of that.**

 **Yes, the time frame is the 1930s during the Great Depression. I didn't set the particular date or location of the setting purposefully (other than the season and that they're in the US). During the Depression boxing programs became increasingly popular, it kept young boys and men off the streets and from resorting to criminal acts, as well as help boost morale. It was a big deal. I always pictured Alfred learning to box during this time.**

 **Thank you for reading.**


End file.
